


I Never Know What To Say

by eightychanges



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: A little slow burn, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, M/M, Pain, Pining, Soulmates, Unbeta'd, but do they know?, disclaimer: I don't know how to evenly distribute chapters, idiots to lovers, lighthearted turned to deep life crisis, messy timelines so pls ignore, this is wordy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26476705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eightychanges/pseuds/eightychanges
Summary: Soulmate AU, where a soulbond is rejected before it can properly form, leading to loss of any if not all of the five senses.
Relationships: Gerard Piqué/Sergio Ramos
Comments: 34
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Had this idea in my head, no intention to post but I actually finished it. It's literally word vomit for my guilty pleasure, so this is a shit piece. 
> 
> [playlist](https://soundcloud.com/user-994289676/sets/i-never-know-what-to-say?ref=clipboard&p=a&c=1)
> 
> _"As Rilke observed, love requires a progressive shortening of the senses." – William Gass_

_nunca sé que decir (I never know what to say)_

He should have noticed from the beginning. The way his world tilted harshly by a 180 degree the first time they met. There was something uncomfortable settling deep in his chest, something thin and piercing binding his ribs together tightly. 

His hand slips reaching out to Ramos, and the defender sends him a confused glance but shrugs it off, jogging back into position. 

Gerard should have noticed right from the beginning, who it was. But he only remembers wheezing, bracing himself on his knees as he struggles to find something to grasp and somewhere to ground himself. It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. The stories he's heard, the fantasy tales weaved into his mind of a perfect meeting, something out of the movies, crisp like a breath of fresh air, holding hands tentatively, eyes bright. 

No, this was much different, but without a doubt the very same thing that ties them all together as lovers. 

He looks back on it now, it's strikingly obvious. Ramos had even run back over, head thrown back slightly as a hand pushes through the sweaty strands falling across his face. 

"Hey,” he calls breathlessly, “ were you trying to tell me something? Sorry, but you have to admit, trying to grab me in the middle of the match isn’t exactly the best time." 

He flutters around Gerard, hands outstretched as if he was preparing for him to topple over. Gerard grimaces. Guess he looked really bad, and he didn't feel any much better than he looked. But he waves him away to turn the attention away from himself. Others were looking over now, amidst the game, and he didn't want to pull any of their focus.

That was their first meeting. 

And it was the simplest. So simple he forgot about it.

...

Some years later, at 23, he plays another game, and carries out a questionable action. 

The infamous sign with his hand stretched out wide to the spectators. Granted, he knew what he was doing when he waved at the crowd with his palm to the sky, flashing his long fingers wide across the stadium. 

_ Five goals to none. _

_ Don't ever forget it.  _

The jeers from one side were drowned out by cheers from the other side, and he was beyond elated, heart thumping along with the yells of the fans. 

He doesn't remember anything above the high of an astounding win. He grabs Messi, grabs Puyol, raises his fists to the crowd who praise the badge he wears across his heart. 

In the hallway along to the dressing room though, he sobers up when he sees Sergio standing there, leaning against the wall beneath a low light, chest rising and falling softly, breaths echoing along the length of the tunnel. The other players don't notice him at all, cheering and bickering all the way to the room. 

Messi gives him a small pat on the shoulder and a smile, because he's Messi, and Gerard sees Sergio mutter something to him. He lingers behind, shifting on his feet. That same unsettling feeling of something unspoken edging its way to the surface. 

He frowns, seeing Xavi poke his head around a corner, a tight smile across his face and a hand raised in an acknowledgement to Sergio, who smiles briefly. Xavi says something else to him, making Sergio shake his head before he shrugs and the door closes. 

Gerard turns his head to the side, glancing at his side profile, the strong slope of his nose, the natural pout of his lips. He's staring at the ground, eyes blinking slowly. 

A few months back in an interview for the national team he and Ramos had cultivated a somewhat hostile relationship which he understands, because they both love their clubs as much as they hate their rivals. But that should have just stayed on the pitch.

Playing for Spain was an honorable thing. But playing it among the Madrid players was like having an unremovable stick jammed up his ass.

_ 'Tell him in Andalusian', _ what an A-grade petty bastard.

"Hey." His voice echoes loudly along the hallway and Gerard winces himself. 

Sergio turns his head slowly to look at him. Expression hardening, he jerks his head back without saying a word. Rolling his eyes, the taller man steps over.

"Saw your little display earlier." His voice cuts sharply through the air, dripping with distaste when Gerard gets close enough. 

"What?" 

"Don't play dumb." He shakes his open palm mockingly, shoving it in Gerard's face. "Your lovely little gesture that's gonna fuck it all up. You know what you did." 

Gerard bristles at the accusation. "What? You think I want to stir this up?" 

"Yes." Sergio glares at him stonily and wow, the accusation is true, but it stings. "Because you're a fucking child that can't control his emotions for one moment to spare us all the trouble later." 

Gerard runs a hand through his hair roughly. He grabs a fistful of the white jersey at Sergio's shoulder, jerking him back against the wall. It must hurt, he hears the thump of strong bone smacking against concrete, but the other man holds his gaze in his own unwavering one. "Hey, fuck you. We won, and I felt like celebrating what was so obviously an  _ incredible _ win. Besides," he pauses, "I don't see how this affects you. They'll be coming at me, so you can just fuck right off back to your team." 

He doesn't wait for Sergio to reply, waving off his offended stuttering as he pulls open the door, shutting it loudly in the Madrid captain's face.

He feels bitter. Bitter, angry, cursing Ramos to oblivion for ruining his good mood. Xavi's by the door, running a towel through his hair. He turns away from talking to Andrés to look at Gerard. He takes one look at his ruffled feathers and shakes his head. Piqué ignores him, stomping over to his place, starting to throw clothes out of his bag to change.

"You know..." he drops the shirt he had pulled out with a sigh, crossing his arms and spinning to face Xavi. 

"He's not that bad." 

"Yeah, tell me that when I forget that he didn't just accuse me of purposely making a scene, which I stress," he holds his hands out against his chest, "I will never. Forget." 

Xavi chuckles and shuffles away, leaving Gerard to brood. 

Later on in the showers, he's soaping up his hair in one of the stalls, mind pleasantly blank with the warm shower spray steaming up the room, water dripping down the back of his spine and over his eyelashes. 

He listens to the pattering of water droplets on the floor, to his even breaths, until for a second they seem to disappear, like a fragrance sprayed from a perfume bottle slowly but surely diffusing until you can't smell it from where you spritzed it anymore. He stops, hands in his hair, shampoo foam falling into his eyes, and blinks. 

The sounds come back immediately after, and he licks his lips, lifting his elbow to wipe away the soap stinging his eyes. 

What the hell? Did he just disassociate from himself or something? 

He shrugs it off, thinking he probably fell asleep standing for a second or so. Washing off the rest of the soap, he grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist before heading back out. 

...

They win the World Cup, and for that, everything seems to draw to a standstill. He even gives Ramos a hug if it counts for anything. 

He scans the crowds, gives a little girl a football, drinks a lot, smiles a lot, and things feel alright.

...

Things certainly don't get easier even as he gains a few years in experience, and a few more numbers in goals. 

Sergio hates him even more, so the feelings are mutual on both sides. 

But that wasn't what was affecting him. Rolling his luggage over the cobbled pavement, he makes his way into the building, through the glass doors, greeting a few people lingering at the entrance for the Spanish concentration. 

He's meeting the rest of the Barcelona members at the cafeteria, and he sends the group chat a text, telling them he's going to drop off his things in his room first. 

He gets his keycard from the front desk, takes the lift up to the seventh floor. He takes the wrong turn on the first try, ending up having to make a roundabout the other way, the wheels of his luggage rolling softly on the carpet as he looks at the numbers stuck to the doors. 

Finally, he gets to #22, and he swipes the card, pushing the door open. 

Surprisingly, he's not alone. Well, it figures he'd have to share a room, it was on his part that that information had completely flown over his head. 

There's two beds, one closer to the wall to the adjacent bathroom. The other bed, which was occupied, was nearer to the floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight falling softly over the sheets. 

It's by some cruel joke of fate playing him that he has fucking Sergio Ramos sitting on that bed, one knee tucked under his thigh, talking to Iker who was leaning against the window. Their conversation stopped short the moment he walked in, and then they were engaged in a weird, awkward competition of who could stare the other to death, excluding Iker of course, who stood bemused by the side.

Gerard breaks his gaze first, not sure if he should feel proud for not immediately punching him in the face. It would certainly have given him the satisfaction if nothing else. He averts his gaze down, drawing his luggage up, parking it by the wall. 

He can feel Sergio and Iker eyeing him, and it makes his spine give an uncomfortable tingle. Silent communication was the worst, and those two could do it in the most infuriating way. He pointedly ignores them, back straightened out stiffly as he sets to removing his jacket, tossing it on the bed. 

Then he looks at his things, at the bed, at the two in the other corner, the discomfort of being scrutinized increasing every second that passes. Sighing, he turns to them.

"Continue talking or whatever, I'm going down to the café." He waves, more a friendly gesture at Iker than Sergio, and turns to leave. 

"Aren't you going to unpack?" Iker asks. 

Gerard sighs internally.  _ Iker! _

"Cesc, Andrés and the rest are waiting for me, I'm late already." 

Iker shrugs, pushing himself off the window glass. "It's fine, you unpack, I'll tell them for you. I wanna say hi to Xavi anyway." He gives Gerard one of those looks he cannot say no to, and when Gerard turns to look at him pitifully, Iker's face softens enough that he comes up and pats his chest lightly before slipping out the room. 

That leaves him with Sergio. He stays stubbornly silent the whole time as he unzips his bags and lays out various items; chargers plugs, some socks. 

Sergio stares at him the whole time, but he wasn't glaring, which was a step up. Gerard glances at him from time to time, side-eyeing him as he moves around the room, Sergio's gaze following him. 

He chews on the inside of his cheeks, turning around to face the long wooden desk along the wall of the room. There's a mirror attached to the wall, and a line of sockets which he flicks one of the switches to charge up his cellphone. When he looks up, he catches Sergio's eyes in the reflection of the mirror. 

His eyes are brown, that's the first thing he thinks of. Of all the times they clash together, he's always too caught up in the moment to realise this small, minor detail. It's a very nice brown, not so close to hazel but lingering around a warm, dark tinge like honey. They're a bit glazed over too, which he realises belatedly that means Sergio has zoned out. 

Gerard sighs. So much for team unity, the guy is...wherever the hell he is now. 

"Oi." He snaps his fingers at him. 

Sergio blinks. "Huh?" 

"I'm going down. For food." Sergio continues to stare at him, like he’s unsure if Gerard is speaking to him. "So..." 

"Uh huh?" 

"Are you going down?" He finishes impatiently. 

"Yeah...? Oh!" He jumps up from the bed, finally, finally figuring out what Gerard's vocabulary couldn't do for him. "Yeah yeah let's go I'm starving." 

Gerard holds the door out for him, waiting as Sergio slides his feet into some slippers before pulling the keycard out of its slot as he closes it behind them. 

They take the lift in silence, standing at either corner, Sergio gazing at the floor and Gerard at the digital display of the lift levels. It stops at level 3, and a soft ding rings as the door opens. Gerard's squeezing himself through the doors before it even fully opens, speed walking over to where the other Barça players are gathered. 

He doesn't even know of the breath he's been holding in until he reaches the table and he sighs loudly, slumping into the seat beside Cesc. His friend gives him a questioning smile but slides over a cup of tea to him anyway.

Iker's still hanging around, supporting himself by leaning against one of the chairs, chatting with Xavi and Andrés, and he looks up when he sees Gerard. "Oh you're here. Where's Sergio?" 

Eyebrows shoot off multiple faces at the mention of the two of them together at all, not to mention alive, and Gerard shrugs. "Left him at the lift." 

"Oh...so he's just standing there?" Iker says absently as his gaze trails.

Gerard follows his gaze and finds that Sergio really is indeed still standing at the lift. He's looking around, arms crossed, but he's not really  _ looking  _ at anything, just sort of randomly standing there. 

"What's he doing?" He asks incredulously.

Iker shrugs, waving them goodbye as he heads over. Gerard sees Sergio's head turn when Iker calls him, sees him smile, sees them head over to another table and then promptly turns his back to them.   


Later in the evening when the other players are retiring to bed for an early practice tomorrow morning, Gerard gets out of his seat, promising he'd go over to Cesc's room to play a few games soon. He's heading to the lift when someone calls his name. 

"What?" 

"Can we talk?" Sergio asks. His hands are shoved in his pocket and he’s chewing the inside of his cheeks. 

The evening blue is settling to dusk, the dark gloom seeping over the skies. Sergio's half in the dark when he asks him. Some part of Gerard wants to say no because he's got himself a throbbing headache, he can't remember tasting his tea at all and he really wants to sleep. 

But for some reason his tongue moves on its own and he's agreeing before he can stop himself.

Sergio leads him out to the pitch, and hey, it's a great time and place to murder him. Sergio can just stab him and dispose of his body. It's empty on the field and it's dark. Gerard eyes his hands, searching for a murder weapon.

But he doesn't have any, he just turns to Gerard and sighs like he's disappointed all the gods in the world. 

"Look," he starts, "the world cup win was amazing." 

"Yeah."

"And it'd be nice to get that feeling again." 

Where was he going with this? A wind whips past them and Gerard shivers, thin t-shirt doing nothing to fend away the chill. Through gritted teeth he manages a, "so you want to win another world cup? Good for you." 

"God, Gerard you never know when to shut your mouth do you?" He snaps, frowning. "Be serious, what I mean is that..." he trails off. He inches closer, but keeps his mouth firmly shut in case they just end up arguing on the pitch again.

Sergio crosses his arms protectively over himself, lips drawing into a pout, and it's strangely  _ cute _ and Gerard wants to  _ die _ from: the  _ cold _ . "Look, I play for Real, you for Barcelona, but right now, right here, can we just try and get along? We're amazing players and I think we have a shot at the Euros if we work together." 

Oh. Oh okay. Unexpected, but a pleasant one. 

"Oh, ok." 

Sergio visibly brightens, as much as the dark allows, and he  _ smiles.  _ Gerard can't remember a time Sergio Ramos smiled at him. It made something warm spread through him.

"Ok?" 

"Yeah." He cautiously reaches out, fingers curling around Sergio's shoulder, then slides his arm over. Sergio melts into his side with a relieved sigh. He's like a furnace beside him and Gerard wonders just how much their rivalry had been bothering him. Had he wanted them to be friends? 

“That was easy.” He says, Gerard nodding his agreement. 

“I’m surprised. Don’t you hate me?”

“We have our differences.” Sergio shrugs. “But I never hated you. Although if you kept some of your smarter opinions to yourself, we’d be on even better terms.”

Gerard deigns to reply but he doesn’t disagree either.

"C'mon let's go back, it's really cold out here." 

...

Sergio passes him the ball during their practice match, and it feels like a win, even if he didn't score.

And later, it doesn't even matter because they win the Euros that year too.

...


	2. Chapter 2

He's in the kitchen waiting for his takeaway to heat up when Leo calls him. 

It would have just been like normal if not for the fact that he didn't hear the phone ring despite it being on full volume. He only knew because it had vibrated in his pocket, and when he took it out to answer it, he frowns, thinking his speaker was broken.

"Hello, Geri?" Leo's voice calls softly over the phone. 

"Hey." He fumbles with it, finding the speaker option and pressing it with his thumb.

"Are you busy?" 

"Nah, just waiting for dinner. Why'd you call?" 

"Oh nothing, how was it?" 

His microwave gives a ping, pressing his phone between his shoulder and ear, and he pops the lid open.  "Surprisingly, Ramos called for a truce. Not sure if he meant forever or just until after the team training, but it's good." 

"That's nice." 

"Yeah, how're you?" 

Leo makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat which Gerard scoffs at. "Alright then." 

They chat on the phone for a while more, Gerard replying between bites of fried fish. With each bite he takes however, he starts to panic. He swallows, drinking some water before he cuts off Leo and his story.

"Hey, hey, sorry but uh...do you ever just, not taste things?" 

It's quiet on the other line and Gerard can imagine Leo blinking, processing his question. "What do you mean?" 

"I'm eating here, right, fried fish from that place near central, and I can't.. _.taste it?_ It happened with everything I ate during international too." 

Leo's frowning behind his phone. "Can you smell it?" 

"The food? Sure, a little less intense than usual, but yeah." 

"Oh." 

"What?" 

"I think I know but I’ll, tell you tomorrow at practice, okay?" 

"Yeah, sure." 

The subject gets left behind and later when they end the call, Gerard feels that same unsettling pulse thudding inside. Why couldn’t he just say it over the phone? 

...

Practice is on a cold dreary morning with overcast skies and a sharp chill in the air.

He's joking around with Neymar, trying to kick the ball through his feet while simultaneously smacking the back of his head. The younger footballer has his jacket zipped up to his nose and he glares playfully as he tries to tackle Gerard.  Obviously, he fails, no one can reach Gerard's height. 

Messi calls after him when practice ends. He sits on one of the spectator seats close to the pitch, feet tapping the ground that was either from the cold or he was nervous. He doesn't know which. Gerard pulls his head wrap over his ears tighter and crosses the grass, passing him a hot flask. 

Leo takes it gratefully with eager hands, unscrewing the lid, breathing in the pleasant smoke of the hot tea that curls into his face, giving him a pink tinge to his cheeks. 

Gerard waits as he takes a sip, biting back a smile at his friend's pleased expression to have something to warm him up.

"So what's up?" 

Leo rests the flask in his lap, tilts his head to the side to cast a long contemplative look to him, unsure how to start. "Geri...you know about soulmates right?"

Gerard startles. He never really thought about it until now. His life just always revolved around football and his inability to escape some kind of drama he undeniably started.

"Huh. Don't think I ever really noticed much. It'll happen when it happens right, why? What's that got to do with my sense of taste disappearing?" 

"Do you think it could be that you found your soulmate?" 

Gerard opens his mouth to reply but Leo shakes his head.  _ I'm not done. _

"I heard that if they uh, if they reject you, you may start to lose your senses...it starts lightly with the loss of taste and smell. Then, later on the worse symptoms come on. It's like you're...forgetting how to feel, to sense things."

Leo bites his lower lip when he finishes, looking at Gerard worriedly as he blinks. Has he a soulmate? And what did Leo say -

"Rejected?" 

The shorter man leans over, placing a hand on Gerard's knee. "I'm not saying that's what it is Geri, but these things do happen." He says quietly.

Gerard looks up at him, eyebrows knotted in confusion. "How do I know?" 

"How do you know what?" 

"How do I know if I had a soulmate, and who could it even possibly be?" 

"You feel it, Geri. You both do." Leo moves his hand from his knee to his wrist, strokes the indent of his knee with his thumb. These circumstances aren't impossible. Life pairs you with another, but in life, there are always changes. Difficulties, misunderstandings, and sometimes those can break up the most unbreakable pairings. 

He may be biased, by who wouldn't take Gerard as their soulmate? If anyone, _Gerard_ deserves a soulmate who loves him. 

"Leo." 

"Yeah?" 

He swallows, throat tightening when he tries to speak. "What happens, after all this?" 

His eyes are unsure, Leo won't say anything about it. For a person who doesn't care much about the presence of soul bonds, this was one hell of a payback for ignorance. 

"I heard, sometimes, you just", he shrugs, "lose everything." 

Gerard's breaths are coming out uneven and Leo leans over the seat to curl against his side. "We’ll get it checked at the doctors if you’d like. Nothing’s for sure until they say so.” He says softly, and winces at the laughter that leaves Gerard's chest, an airy, sharp little laugh that he clearly forced out.

It matches. What Leo says matches him, like puzzle pieces clicking together to form a nightmare. "What other explanation can it be?” He takes a breath, realisation dawning on him. “God, I don't even know who it is." 

"Geri-"

"I don't even know who it  _ was _ ." He laughs, burying his head in his hands. His friend rubs the back of his neck, trying to soothe him. When he speaks, his voice is soft, a hopeless tremble in his words as he says, "what the fuck is this Leo." 

...

Gerard gets through year after year of slow deterioration. It feels like a corpse rotting from the inside, except he's still alive. 

There's a misery to having all his senses dulled at the same time, so much that he would rather be thrown off a cliff than suffer through all this. 

Leo forces him to see a doctor, _ to confirm  _ he insists. He was so certain that it was what it was that he told Leo it was pointless. But he goes anyway and suffers through the doctor's sympathetic looks. The ones everyone give when they find out the 'popular celebrity has a shitty personal life'. 

He does, however, get medication to slow the process. The doctor encourages him to try and find his soulmate, and he stares at her incredulously all the way until Leo shoves him out the clinic. 

29 years. She wants him to flick through his memories like a picture book and find everyone he's made contact with for the past 29 years. Even if he finds them, they had rejected him. Would they really care about the state of his well-being after that?

Personally he thinks they’ll say  _ to hell with you _ and push him off a cliff. 

Leo only manages to further his grieving by telling him there are no cliffs nearby to throw him off of. 

...

International duty rolls around again, and this time Gerard is twice as tired, as unhappy and as jittery as before. 

He's gotten more amiable speaking with Sergio now, so rooming with him wasn't going to be the major problem. But still, it was difficult. 

This time they meet at the lift, and Sergio glances up from scrolling through his phone to flash him a quick smile. "Hey Geri." 

And he calls him by his nickname now. It was pretty great. Gerard smiles back. The lift door opens with a chime and they both enter. There's a little  déjà vu in this scene, and Gerard wants so badly to shake it off, if only for a semblance of something good.

Sergio seems to read his mind, and he quirks an eyebrow at him. "You okay?" 

"Hanging in there." He replies pleasantly, pressing the 7th floor for them both. He wishes he were lying, but he really felt like he was upright only by a thread tied to the top of his head. 

They unpack in their rooms, exchanging small talk and bits of information on their lives. Sergio gives up wrestling with his clothes halfway and flops onto the bed, picking up his phone to scroll through. He laughs at something on his screen and Gerard turns to stare, hands stilling where they're unfolding a black t-shirt. 

Something feels empty this time around. Looking at Sergio. He used to want to smack him if ever laughed. There's none of the usual anger or irritation, and that queasy unsettling feeling was gone too. Now he just looks at him and feels close to nothing.

He does think, however, lying on that bed near the window in the evening sunset, that Sergio looks as alive and bright as ever. The golden sunlight on his face moves when he moves, giving his already tanned skin a sun kissed glow. 

Gerard breathes quietly in the room. The air-conditioner gives a mechanical hum, and there's buzzing traffic downstairs, but Gerard can only hear his own breath faintly. His mouth tastes like ash, except he can't actually taste anything now, so that's the best way he can describe it. 

Sergio's eyes slide from his phone to him when he feels his stare, and he bites his lip in contemplation, deciding what to say. He settles for, "are you gonna go down for dinner?" 

The thought of dinner is actually repulsive, because all he can think of is what food used to taste like. But Sergio's waiting, and he doesn't want to have to answer any more questions, so he just nods. 

The Barça and Real Madrid members sit together, a mismatch of colours all jumbled as one mass and Gerard has long forgotten how to see them as separate entities now. They wear the same jersey here anyway.

He takes a seat beside Jordi, with Roberto in front of him to his left. Iker's beside Roberto, Isco in front of him and Sergio takes the seat right in front of him. 

The others are all chatting, passing salt and sharing some laughs. Sergio greets them all with smiles and handshakes, and then looks down at both their empty table spaces. 

He’s opening his mouth, ready to ask Gerard along to the buffet spread when he takes a second look at the man. He’s slouched in his seat, eyes barely blinking but looking like he’d fall right off the chair he was sitting on. 

Forehead creasing in concern, he says instead, "I'll get us food, okay?" 

Gerard nods. 

He's listening to Jordi and Isco talking about something...he can't really remember. A plate gets set in front of him, cutlery thrust in his face. He takes it with a sigh instead of a thank you. 

Sergio takes his seat and starts eating immediately, cutting up a bit of chicken and twirling a fork through some spaghetti. Gerard looks on tiredly as he spears a slice of yellow bell pepper, eating it in one go.

Miserably, Gerard puts the fork and knife on the table and favours the glass of water instead. What once was tasteless, will still be tasteless, and that was his only comfort. 

He ticks off his senses through his head to remind himself because that's how much he hates himself. He's suffering from the taste and hearing loss. His smell is surprisingly unaffected, but his sight...everything has been looking blurry lately, colours faint like someone had pulled on tape after forcing his eyes open.

His eyelashes flutter, and he looks down at the white tablecloth. Like what water was to his taste, white was to his sight. The differences were less easy to discern with both. 

A faint clink on his plate pulls him back to reality. He looks up, finds Sergio's fork angled on his plate, he's pointing at his food. 

"Eat. I got you stuff you can stomach easily." He says quietly.

Gerard looks down, and Sergio really did do that. In comparison to the blanco's plate piled with food, his had just a bit of some protein and vegetables, and a half of a croissant. He swallows. It's a nice gesture,something entirely unexpected of Sergio. 

"Thanks." He mutters, reaching for his fork. Sergio only beams at him, returning to his meal. 

He eats slowly, the number of people around them dwindling until there's only them and Iker, who's talking to Sergio lowly, elbow resting on the chair where he's turned to him, both their plates cleaned of any morsels of food. Gerard's finishing up a final piece of chicken, swallowing it down with water when his phone vibrates. 

It's from Leo, checking up on him with a short _ r u ok? _

_ I'm alright, ate some food. _

He sends it before flipping his phone back down on the table.

Sergio’s looks over at him when he leans back in his seat, in the way he's kept doing since they arrived here. It's a strange sort of comfort, having his attention. He always seemed the type to have a short attention span outside the pitch.

"You done?" 

"Yeah." 

Sergio gets up silently, nodding his head towards the lift, and he and Iker stand and follow. He's sandwiched between them both on the way to the lift. While waiting for the elevator, he leans against the side of the wall silently watching the two of them chat.

They wave Iker goodbye at the 6th level, Sergio giving him a kiss on the cheek and Gerard managing a half-hug. 

When the doors close, Sergio slumps against him with a loud groan. He chuckles despite himself, throwing an arm around the older man more for support for himself than anything else. 

Sergio has long lost the long strands, now with that neat buzzcut and close-cropped hair. He gives himself a moment to caress the back of his head, feel the fuzzy remains of hair there tickle his palm. Used to stare at his hair for ages debating whether it was a dark blonde or brown. Now he’ll never know. 

Sergio shifts to look at him just as the doors open. His eyes are blinking slowly up at him. Gerard wets his lips and lets go of Sergio before he can even think, the other man catching his balance stumbling out the lift after him.

He slides the card into the holder and the room brightens softly with an orange glow from the lights above their beds. He picks up his towel from the bed and turns to look at Sergio. 

"Are you going to shower?" 

"Tomorrow morning." He mumbles, kicking off his slippers and falling into bed, well, Gerard's bed since it was closer to the door. He shrugs and flicks the bathroom lights on, sliding in and closing the door behind him. 

When he re-emerges, steam trailing out from the door, Sergio's out cold on his bed, sprawled in all directions. Gerard rubs the towel through his dripping hair, padding softly across the carpet. He dumps the wet towel on an armchair and then leans against the window, staring out at the lights from the city below. The view reminds him more like orbs of light now, not so different from when one's hand slips in taking a photo and they get a blurry bright mass of nothing.

But it's bearable. If he squints, he can still make out the shapes of the buildings.

Sighing, he closes his eyes and turns away, gaze immediately falling on Sergio, whose face is turned towards him, face squashed into the pillow. He huffs a laugh, walking over to him. He grabs the duvet from under him to tug it up over Sergio's shoulders. Stealing his bed, the asshole. But he'll let this one go since he's feeling generous.

Then he pauses. This is his bed after all, he should still sleep in it. Nodding in agreement with himself, he climbs over Sergio, careful not to step on any of his limbs, sliding into the small space between the wall and the other man. 

He stares at the back of Sergio's head until he falls asleep. 

...

The game against Czech Republic starts off frustratingly. 

No one gives any way, they get close to a goal, it gets deflected. The other squad pushes, and they push back, but the minutes were passing and no goals were scored. One of the other players had fantastic saves, and by half-time, things were looking bleak. 

They were going to end up sharing points.

Then, at some point Thiago gets an amazing shot, and it looks to go in, but it doesn't. And Morata comes in with a close second, but that still didn't earn them any points. 

Piqué runs a hand through his hair, sweat dripping down his neck, jersey sticking to his back. His legs were straining but there were still minutes left to play. 

Through the sweat droplets clinging to his lashes. He sees Andr é s get the ball, and he's up near  the post the moment his head meets the ball and he directs it past the goalkeeper. It goes through. It fucking goes through, and it hits the back of the net gently. 

Of all the ways to score, this is how it happens, with a gentle nudge in the right direction at the 87th minute. 

Piqué's back on his feet running before he even processes it, the stadium erupts into a thunderous applause and cheer and there's someone jumping on him. He looks on at the crowd, panting heavily, still processing what he'd just done. A red-clad arm slides roughly over his sternum, clutching at him from around his shoulders and he hears Sergio shouting. 

He faintly registers Sergio's warmth, the hard muscle pressed up against his back. There are more bodies ramming against him and his frame sways. He clasps Sergio's hand, their fingers sweaty and sliding over one another. Sergio's grinning at him.

They've got a few more minutes left. A goal, lifted morale, and a few more minutes.

...

After the 1-0 win.

They have a little celebration, Andrés and Piqué getting the bulk of the back slaps. They retire to bed after the high, and like usual, the high dies down fast to give way to tiredness. The weariness seeps through his bones and his muscles ache when Gerard pushes through the door of his room. 

The water's running in the bathroom when he trudges in. He kicks his shoes off and shoves them in the corner against the door. He switches on the television for the white noise and picks up a pitcher of water, filling the glass. 

He drinks it as the bathroom door opens. Sergio's humming as he pushes the door open and he drips water all the way to his bed. Piqué raises a brow over the glass. The man's got a towel wrapped around his head, another wrapped around his waist, clasped loosely in one hand at the base of his spine. 

He trails his gaze quietly down the water droplets clinging to his abs, giving his skin a glistening shine. Gerard swallows, rubbing the back of his wrist against his lips.

"Don't look, will you? I'm shy." Sergio says, flashing a grin over his shoulder.

Gerard rolls his eyes but smiles as he fixes his gaze at the wall instead. He'd drunk a little bit too much, and now he was ready to shower, and sleep for a day. 

"Done." 

He puts the glass on the desk and spins on his heel to grin at Sergio. The other man looks soft in a grey hoodie and black shorts that reach his knees, the hair towel is off, dangling over one shoulder. His blonde hair is tousled where it sticks to his forehead. 

Sergio returns his smile, crossing the space. Gerard stretches out his arms and he fits into the space between his arms, head resting on his shoulder. 

"Great game." He mumbles into his chest.

Piqué hums, arms tightening around his captain’s shoulders. "Thank Andrés."

"Already did. Now it's your turn." 

"It is, isn't it." He pulls back, hands resting on Sergio's shoulders. He looks older. Time does that to everyone. 

"Thanks capi." 

Sergio blows him a kiss and turns back to his bed, bending down to arrange clothes in his duffel bag. Gerard leans against the desk and eyes his bundles of clothes until something catches his eye.

"Are those _neon_ _yellow_ socks?" 

"Yeah, good for night practice you know?" Sergio laughs, chucking the pair at him.

"Yeah right." Gerard snorts, but he fingers the soft material between his fingers, the bright yellow cotton has a horizontal stripe across the top. They're knee-high too, and he thinks they'd look great stretched over Sergio's calves.

"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" 

"Sure." He says without tease. He meets Sergio's eyes across the room which flicker with something he can't quite make out. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower." 

The older man nods, rubbing at his eyes. Gerard's halfway to the toilet when Sergio grips his shoulder, eyes large and close as he tugs him down to height and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight." He murmurs. 

He's still rooted there when Sergio climbs under the covers and snuggles down with a small, contented noise. Gerard's skin tingles, and he shakes his head; thinks he's getting too used to seeing Sergio in his bed. 

A quick shower later and he's back. He has his back pressed up against the wall, and Sergio half-asleep, rolls over into his chest. He's warm and soft and fits right against his chest. Just having brushed his teeth, his mouth lacks the usual clean aftertaste, and he grudgingly realises he misses the minty taste of toothpaste in his mouth.

Gerard breathes in the scent of his shampoo. It's there, a fresh acidic smell that is strong enough he can actually pick up.  Gently, he feels around under the covers and rests one hand over Sergio's hip, the other under the pillow as he closes his eyes and drifts off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through! Discharged from the doc's so I'm doing some rewriting and eating EGGS.

Waking up, the first thing Sergio sees are collarbones. Collarbones, collarbones, collarbones all the way across tan, velvety skin. His gaze travels up, across Gerard's cheekbones, his eyelashes fluttering from a dream somewhere in that head of his. 

He shaved last night; Sergio gulps. He slips one hand where it's wedged between their bodies and runs his knuckles lightly along the underside of his jaw, stubble scratching skin.

Gerard shifts in his sleep, unconsciously squeezing him closer in the process and Sergio bites his lip harshly when their hips drag together. He's beautiful. He wants to stay in his arms as long as possible. 

One of his hands curls against Gerard’s sleep shirt, feeling Gerard’s even breathing, cheek pressed against the pillow. It’s a single bed, and how they’ve managed to squeeze into it is only because they’re so impossibly pressed together. Sergio slides his foot between Gerard’s legs, digging for warmth.

This is self-inflicted torture. Iker, good, kind, exasperated Iker is going to kill him, because he's giving himself a taste of what he can't have, sinking too much in an experience he cannot truly have. 

It’s selfish, but these early mornings in their private little room are the only times he can have him to himself. Outside of this, the taller defender barely pays him any attention, completely oblivious to what Iker calls _drooling_. He huffs. Sergio prefers calling it a _ppreciating from a distance._

The first time he woke up to Gerard was that previous time he passed out in his bed. And rubbing open his eyes, the first thing he blurted out was  _ huh?  _ because who expects those crystal eyes focused on him so close that he can see each individual eyelash?

He had let out a pitchy shriek, tumbling off the bed along with the duvet. Gerard had laughed a long time before reaching over to help rescue him from the sheets, wrestling with the material until Sergio's head found freedom.

Definitely not one of his best moments. 

Rolling his eyes at the memory, Sergio tucks his hands closer to Gerard’s chest, feels the pulsing of repetitive heartbeats beneath his ribs. He rubs absently at his own chest, feeling the gaping hollowness now so prominent against his heart. 

Gerard never said anything, never shot him down or pushed him away. So Sergio told himself he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries. If he had a soulmate, then Gerard would definitely tell him, and that was later’s problem.

…

2 years later.

Gerard’s relationship with his work is like a swinging pendulum. It goes one way, then the other, always coming back to each other, never giving him a break. 

He pays the doctor another visit. She tells him that his soulmate must have rejected him roughly 15 or so years ago. 

_ Who have you known 15 years Gerard? _

_ I don’t know.  _

He could probably dig up something from his memories, but he doesn’t exactly want to know who it is. But it is killing him at the same time he doesn’t know. 

He wants to ask them, whoever they are, what exactly he did for them to hate him this much. Yes, he could be an asshole and a bigger asshole at times, but what had he  _ done? _

He spends one week during the break in the hospital, which he passes in self-pity, begging everyone not to say anything. (read: everyone = Messi because no one else knows).

“For the record Geri, you’re making all the wrong decisions here.” Leo had said, frowning as he leaned back in his seat beside the hospital bed. He had a nondescript black hood pulled tightly over his head, and looked more like an angsty teen than a famous football player.

“Mmhm.”

He tilts up his hand, it flops limply to the side and he glances tiredly at the small print of his name on the white patient’s tag. Gerard’s heard all about his bad decisions, he’s living through them now, actually. It has cost him his senses and left him in a constant downward spiral of misery.

“It’s going to get worse. You can’t hide it forever. What do we tell the media when you just suddenly disappear from games? At least tell your mother so she won't have to find out on Marca or something. ”

“Leo, I don't think she reads Marca." He sighs, shifting his shoulders to sink into the pillow, "and we'll be fine. It won't go to," he waves his hand vaguely, "that point."

Losing his taste and smell was a strange, surreal experience, because he remembers what it feels like to smell something, to taste something. They are not things one can just forget with a snap of their fingers.

The hearing loss is depressing beyond it all. Everything is dulled. He feels like he’s underwater all the time. The doctor had said that the loss of sight was usually the most unbearable for people who’s soulbonds have been rejected.

_ “It’s something you can’t understand until you’re living it.” _

One week later, he’s back on the pitch with a bag full of pills and sight down to 50%. He can kick a ball, defend a post, but he has to strain his eyes to do so. The colours are so faded that there is barely any difference between gray and green.

Leo grabs his elbow every day after practice to guide him off the pitch. They do it discreetly, lingering behind the others before Leo holds on to him and Gerard can focus on not stumbling over his own feet. He thanks him every time. 

That, and wonders what complete darkness feels like.

He concludes that it would be quite lonely.

…

Gerard stands by the front of the tunnel, hands resting on his hips. The glare from the light above is bright that he’s squinting. Busquets pats his arm in greeting from behind him, it’s difficult to see the features of his face.

Back leaned up against the wall, he crosses his arms. The match ahead was exciting, as they always were with Real Madrid. From the equalizer the last time they met, everyone present was going to hope for an upper hand. 

The ref comes down the stairs, ball in one hand, bright neon outfit the only colour he can vaguely identify. It reminds him of the socks Sergio has, the ones he threw at him that time in the hotel room, the pair he still has squashed somewhere in his luggage. 

And speak of the devil, there was Sergio, coming down the steps clasping hands with his team. He claps Courtois on the shoulder, raising his hand up for him to grasp. Ears vaguely pick up on the low murmurs that echo off the walls of the tunnel.

With his shoulders squared and arms swinging easily by his side, the Madrid captain settles in front of Thibaut, casting a quick glance to the side. He fingers the striped armband over his bicep tighter where it stretches tautly across his arm and his eyes flicker up to Gerard’s.

He gives him this indiscernible look, then they’re signaled up and Gerard forgets about it.

...

Coutinho scores the first goal 11 minutes in. It’s quick, a pass along the length of the field, the ball slotting into the net securely past Courtois. They score another with Suarez from the penalty spot. From where he stands, Gerard catches the way the ball shoots millimetres from the goalkeeper’s hands, how he slams the ground and jumps up yelling. Annoyance and irritation at yet another save he missed.

Then it starts again. His eyes are acting up. He lingers at his spot, tugging his jersey up to wipe at his eyes. Roberto shoots him a worried glance from his left but Gerard’s too busy trying to rub away the blindness sliding into his vision.

The ball is fought for, Isco falls and the whistle blows. He gets up. It continues.

The game was in their favour, passes succeeding effortlessly.

He’s around the corner when the words the spectators were chanting become obvious. They were about Ramos, angry loud jeering directed at the Real Madrid captain who was bent down adjusting his shoe, back facing the crowd. 

Gerard sees the way his jaw clenches when he moves closer. He’s ignoring it as best as he can, and he was doing an amazing job with the kind of temper he had. He knows Sergio’s just waiting for a chance to shut them up.

Soles of his cleats sink into the grass as he jogs over, squints at his blurry surroundings. He silences the crowd with his index finger, wagging it in their faces to show his disapproval. They  were all just playing the match, no one deserves shit for that.

The jeering quietens down, which is as good as it can get. He licks his lower lip, hand falling to his side, settling back into position. 

Sergio’s staring at him from where he’s walking backwards, expression soft, eyebrows furrowed. He tries to get his attention but Gerard’s rubbing at his eyes again in that way he keeps doing and that’s the end of that.

The match ends in a horrifying 5 to 1. Well, depending on which team they support. The referee raises both hands, and drops them to Barcelona’s side, Camp Nou erupts into cheer all around them. Sergio feels the weight of the captain’s armband tugging his arm, the disappointment from their fans. He grimaces, pulling the material looser. 

The Barcelona players start coming over to exchange pleasantries. He gives them all quick hugs, except he can’t find Gerard in the sea of red and blues and whites. He looks all over, and a man over 6ft 4 shouldn’t be this difficult to find. He grabs Jordi’s arm, who he’s just given a hug to, and the shorter man looks at him questioningly. 

“Where’s Piqué?”

Jordi turns to face him fully, face scrunched in confusion. “What?”

“Gerard.” Sergio repeats impatiently. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know man, we’re all out here…” he waves a hand over the field. Eyes narrowing, his voice turns suspicious when he asks, “what’d you want with him anyway?” 

Ugh. Why does everyone think he’s looking for a fight? “Nevermind.” He pushes the Spaniard back into the mass of people, who shrugs, side-eyeing him until someone else gets his attention.

If Piqué isn’t on the pitch that means he’s gone back to the changing rooms. He flashes a quick glance at the rest of them still chatting around the pitch and makes his escape down Barcelona’s dugout. 

There is no need to travel far because he finds Gerard walking down the tunnel, slowly, with one hand pressed against the wall.

“Geri?”

No reply. 

“Gerard?” He tries again louder, speeding up his pace until he reaches the other man.

“Hm?” Gerard turns to him, but he’s not looking at him. The tunnel is dark but spotlights are shining every few metres from the ceiling above and Gerard’s acting like it’s pitch black. He squints, reaching out one hand which Sergio takes without question, eyes drawn to how those long fingers curl with the gentlest pressure around his wrist.

He looks up. “Gerard?”

“Oh.” He breathes, unconsciously squeezing his hand tighter before dropping it. “Sergio?”

“Yeah,” Sergio manages a laugh despite the crushing defeat just minutes ago. “Am I that forgettable?”

“Nah, man.” Gerard’s looking at him now, blue eyes and those perfect features Sergio remembers seeing up close. Then his expression scrunches up when he realises, “what’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” 

Gerard looks startled, hesitates, opening his mouth only to close it again. Settles for staring at him, and Sergio starts to fidget under his gaze, shifting his weight from left to right. He’s about to ask him to forget about it. Then without another word Gerard jerks his head, gesturing for him to follow.

He follows him down a corner, rocking back on the balls of his feet as the other opens a door, grabbing his wrist without looking and pulling him in.

Sergio doesn’t ask him why he needs to hold the wall the whole way there.

It’s dark until he flips a switch. Then the room floods into light, and it carries with it a dusty, unused smell with benches flipped and lockers lined up against a corner wall. Sergio frowns. “Where’s this?”

“Extra storage room, save us the trouble of people asking why there’s a blanco in the hallway to our changing rooms.” He explains, squints around, then settles down on one of the benches, patting the space beside him.

Sergio nods understandingly, slumping down beside him, and it’s familiar, like they hadn’t just played against one another, like Sergio hasn’t just lost 5 goals. He turns to look at Gerard, who’s staring straight ahead. Silence falls over them, and in the distance he hears footsteps and possibly the others players’ laughter as they walk past.

“Geri.”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.” There. Short, simple, easy.

Gerard takes a breath, and turns slightly to stare at Sergio. He knows what it’s for, and frankly, he wasn’t expecting Sergio to have noticed. “You’re shit you know? I bet you don’t regret breaking his arm that day.”

He swallows at the clearly disappointed tone, but holds back the urge to argue. Salah was a spur of the moment decision. Like, he was pissed! But it's no use denying it when Piqué calls out his bullshit all the time.

“You deserve what you get for playing dirty.”

He nods.

Gerard blinks at him tiredly, then sighs heavily waving a hand. “It’s fine. They didn’t stop chanting because I asked them to anyway.”

“But you didn’t have to do that- stand up for me.” Sergio protested. He leans closer to Gerard, one hand pressed at the space between their thighs as he twists his body halfway so Gerard has no choice but to look at him. “So I insist, thank you.”

“Alright.” A smile flickers at the corners of his lips. He lifts his hand to cup Sergio’s jaw lightly, patting his cheek. Then dusts his shorts down and stands, Sergio following him up. He opens his arms, bracketing the smaller man in his embrace. His hand curls over his shoulder, stroking the material there. “I’ll accept gratitude if you cut me some slack during international.”

Sergio grins returning the hug, feels Piqué rest his chin solidly, _trustingly_ against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Not my call to make but I’ll try my best.”

“Thanks. You should go back now, before your guys come searching for you.”

Sergio nods, giving Gerard’s arm one final squeeze. He steps out and has covered some distance when the door swings back open. 

“And congratulations on the 5 to 1!”

The earlier gratitude dissolves immediately. He shakes his head and carries on walking. 

“I’ll text you the different shots when I get them! Why so serious? Sergio!”

He flashes him two middle fingers without looking back and Gerard’s laughing all the way back to his locker.

…

He skips out on the team’s decision to go for drinks at 11pm. Maybe he was getting old.  _ Old’s not the problem _ , he tells himself bitterly. 

Either ways, he was sitting on the bed in the hotel, brooding and talking to himself.

He spends the time flicking through TV channels and scrolling through his feed on social media. He mutes the television because it’s a waste of sound if he hears nothing much. There are just never-ending videos of drunk stories on Instagram for now. 

Sergio is surprising not one of the ones drunk beyond his mind, but there are a couple of stories of him videoing the younger players bumping hips, and Gerard hears his low laughter behind a shaky camera as he calls out who he thinks is better.

So time isn’t just a factor for him, he smiles faintly, scoffing when Sergio turns the camera and is holding a tall glass of something decidedly _ not _ water. 

The video was posted just a minute ago when Gerard viewed it, so it’s no surprise when a text message pops up on his screen after he closes the app.

_ Regretting not coming? ;) _

Well, he thinks, not drunk, but definitely on his way there. Sergio doesn’t typically send winky faces. Well not to him at least. 

_ Not really. _

He clicks Sergio’s icon again to see the video. Then quickly churns out another reply. 

_ Tho no complains if ur gonna bring me back a drink.  _

It says  _ [Read, 11:44pm] _ , but no further reply. Gerard shrugs, thinking he’d probably got his attention lost elsewhere. Deciding to take a rinse and call it a night, he grabs a towel off the shelves near the door and heads into the shower.

He turns the tap off, water narrowing to a drip from the shower head. Pulling on a shirt and some shorts, he steps out of the bathroom, running the towel through his hair. The room was dark when he left it, so when he strains his eyes and sees a dark mass on one of the beds it nearly scares him to death.

Upon closer, cautious inspection, it’s his wonderful roommate, who’s passed out on the bed near the window. He reeks of alcohol and something minty when he flips the light switch above his bed. 

Sergio groans weakly when the bulb brightens in front of his face, throwing a hand over his eyes. 

“Didn’t hear you come in.” Gerard says. He smooths a hand over the bed, patting the sheets until he’s sure what he’s sitting on, settling on the edge of his bed. “Thought you’d stay out later.”

Sergio doesn’t reply, but he makes a noncommittal noise and turns his back to Gerard. The younger of them both leans over him, hands pressed on the edge of the bed. “You need anything?”

“Water.” Is the tired mumble he gets back. 

“Now he talks.” Gerard remarks, but goes over to pour him a glass of water. 

Really he should lie down. Feeling across the table, his fingers tremble as they trail over the bumps of various cords and chargers until he finds the water pitcher, tries to fill a glass without entirely missing it. 

He passes Sergio the glass, who sits up, slouching against the headrest as he takes it gratefully. Gerard sits back down beside him. Their thighs brush briefly, and he blinks down between them when Sergio’s knee jerks up and now both their thighs are pressed firmly against each other. 

After a little while, “I brought you that drink you asked.”

His speech is slurred, but for what it counts, he doesn’t seem all that drunk. Sergio points vaguely to the edge of the bed where Gerard squats down, and there’s one half-drunk bottle of wine laying on the floor. 

“Hey, thanks.”

The bottle slides into his grasp, and Gerard nudges Sergio across the bed, climbing into the space he’s carved for himself. His captain grumbles but allows him to squeeze onto the bed with him. They’re pressed from thigh to shoulder, Sergio’s head instinctively sliding down against the hollow of his shoulder.

He pops the cork, it drops to the carpet with a soft thump. It’s good liquor, smooth and tangy, a sharp burn down his throat that he feels but doesn’t taste. Rolling the bottle in his palm, he turns to the shape of Sergio against his side.

The man is drifting in between his consciousness and the dream world, eyelashes fluttering. In the low light and his face up close, Gerard can almost see the pink tinge on his cheeks, lips shining from drinks. He’s good looking, Gerard thinks. And a good age, people usually find their soulmates around this age. 

_ Does Sergio have a soulmate? _

“Hey.” He nudges the man, who sniffs, blinking open his eyes and nodding sleepily. 

“What?” 

“I’ve never heard you talk about your soulmate.”

Sergio scoffs, rolling away from him, leaving the spot vacant and cold. He drags the duvet from under them to wrap himself too, and Gerard rolls his eyes. 

“Have you found her?” He tries. 

He’s met with silence. Huffing, he stretches out one long leg and kicks lightly at Sergio’s shin. He gets a smack to the arm in retaliation, and that guy can use his arms, the smack stings.

“Seriously man, I’d have thought you’d find her by now.” He says, wincing as he rubs his arm.

“No one to find ‘cos I can’t find them.” Gerard doesn’t miss the tartness in his tone.

“What do you mean?”

He hears a muffled noise, but his ears are blocky and he hears nothing comprehensible. Sighing, he leans closer, closing back the gap Sergio created when he rolled away.

“What?”

Sergio sighs loudly, turning around to face him in the dark. He stretches out both hands, clasping them behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Had problems at birth, the doctor said the nerve that senses the bond formation ruptured while I was still an infant.” He rubs absently at his chest, right between where his ribs lie, where the nerve should have been.

Gerard props up on his elbow. “So how do you know when you’ve met your soulmate?”

“That’s the thing.” Sergio smiles bitterly, giving a helpless shrug. “I don’t.”

He bites his lip. “Huh.”

“Yeah. These things happen.”

“So, what, you’ll just never find them?”

“No, they can find me I guess,” he presses his lips in a tight line, a faraway look in his eyes, “but yeah, _I’ll_ never find them.” Sergio coughs, suddenly looking more sober than he had minutes earlier. “Anyway, enough about me. What about you?”

Gerard hesitates, but it seems they’re opening up tonight, and he sees absolutely no harm telling Sergio. He’d be the third to know, besides Leo and his doctor. Strangely, he feels like telling him. 

“I ah, I don’t have one.” He mumbles.

Frowning, Sergio sits up, wincing when his head swims. He squints in confusion. “You don’t have... _ a lung?” _

“ _ One _ ,” Gerard rolls his eyes so hard he’s certain he sees the back of his head. He licks his lips, eyes darting away as his fingers pick at a loose thread in the sheets. “I don’t have  _ one- _ soulmate, I mean. They rejected me.” 

“What?!” 

Gerard has to give it to Sergio, he looks absolutely horrified. “Who does that?”

“People who don’t like you I guess.” He shrugs, strained voice betraying his emotions. “It’s ok though, I’m used to it as it is.”

“Geri.” His eyes turn to him and they’re full of sadness and sympathy that has Gerard reeling. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.” They sit together in silence until Gerard sighs, sliding down until his head finds the curve of his shoulder. Sergio wraps an arm around him. Gerard offers up the bottle and they spend the night passing the bottle between them until it empties out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sergio said: who hurt you (ง •̀_•́)ง


	4. Chapter 4

They wake beside each other the next morning, Sergio half on top of him. He wakes breathing uncomfortably with the weight of the man pressed against him, but when he sees the other dozing soundly with his head pressed to his chest, he stills enough not to disturb him. 

Reaching across to the side table, he pulls up his phone right up his face to check the time, six-thirty. They wouldn’t have to go down for breakfast until seven, so he clicks his phone shut. 

Sergio snores softly, rubbing his head against Gerard. Stretching a hand across his back, he strokes down Sergio’s side gently, shirt riding up that his palm slides against warm skin. He’s pressed so close that he can feel the inconsistent beats of both their hearts. 

He stays dozing as the sun steadily rises past the morning blues, hand running lazy circles over Sergio’s back. Somewhere between, Sergio stirs, blinking around the room. 

“Hey, good morning.” He lifts his head and murmurs, Sergio humming in reply, the vibrations passing through their bodies. 

He smiles, shifting to glance up at him. They’ve had enough ‘morning afters’ in each other’s beds for it not to be a surprise. Sergio asks, “What time is it?”

“Going seven. Gotta get up soon or we’ll be running track until noon, _captain_.” Sergio groans, rolling off him. Gerard immediately misses his warmth.

Sergio stretches, toes curling pleasantly and turns to him slowly from where he’s stretched out beside Gerard. The cogs are oiling up in his blonde head and he watches patiently for him to form his words. 

He leans over Gerard, hand stroking his shoulder. “Hey Geri?”

“Hmm?”

“What you said last night, is it true? Your senses become affected?”

“Ah the soulmate thing?” He turns to him questioningly. Sergio nods silently. “Yeah. Sight, smell, taste. I can’t hear all that well either.” He says easily like a repetition, ticking each sense off his fingers. 

“Does it all just...disappear?”

“Gradually. My doctor says she can’t confirm when it’ll all go but,” he takes a breath, blinking up at the ceiling, where all he can see really is a blotchy patch of something. “I guess it’ll end pretty soon.”

Fingers curl into his, and Sergio’s palm presses tightly against his, pads of his fingers fitting into the divots of Gerard’s hand. It’s comforting, he can’t remember anyone touching him in a long time. He squeezes back. 

“Are you good for practice today?”

“Hm? A little louder?” 

Taking a breath, Sergio presses his lips right beside his ear. “Practice. You wanna go?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Do me a favour though?”

“What is it?”

“Make sure I don’t crash into shit,” he grins, “My image is bad enough.”

“What, you want me to hold your hand?” Sergio jokes.

Their teammates know they’re friendly with each other now, and have been for a while, but it’s always been more of keeping a respectable distance and congratulating the other when it's needed. Walking around holding hands doesn’t necessarily ease them into it. (What was _it_ anyway?)

Before he retracts his request, Sergio just squeezes his hand tighter and his thoughts melt away. With a reassuring, warm voice, “sure, Gerard.”

Sergio sticks to his word. He stays by Gerard’s side so much even the most daft person would notice. 

They’re doing exercises on the pitch, little things like headers and sprints. Then they break up into trios and fours to play a couple of games. 

Both he and Gerard are on defense, obviously, and by instinct he shoves Gerard aside when the ball comes at him. It makes it look like he’s preventing him from playing the game, which he is, but not in the way people believe it to be. 

He’s leaping up to try to net the ball during the fifth practice match, and when he lands, he accidentally trips into Gerard, and both of them go tumbling to the ground with a startled yell. Gerard hisses, hand pressed to his head where it had collided with Sergio’s on impact. He yanks blindly at Sergio, who turns to him concerned. 

Heads turn at the commotion, and they’re all getting ready for them to start arguing.

So when Sergio helps Gerard up with both hands and fusses over him, some of their jaws drop in shock. 

Gerard lowers his head for Sergio to speak into his ear, one hand feeling around his hip. Then Sergio breaks away, jogging backwards, Gerard’s large hand slipping off his side. 

He frowns at Jordi who’s not moving, staring at them both with his jaw dangling. Sergio does him a favour, tipping his chin close in a far less gentle way, a collective chuckle over their little group when Jordi’s jaw snaps shut.

They resume their game. Andrés is going against them, and he smiles whenever he sees Sergio grab Gerard’s wrist and tugs him away from an oncoming ball, causing the taller defender to complain, stumbling back a few feet, his hand still curled around Sergio’s forearm. 

It’s the way they operate around each other, no one ever knows what’s going to happen. It’s difficult to ignore.

…

Sergio had to stay back and review the practice with some of the trainers. So Gerard walks off the pitch with an arm around Llorente instead. 

He hugs his shoulders sideways. The Spanish striker laughs at his surprising clinginess, but soaks up the contact. “You and Sergio are getting along.” He comments by his ear.

“Mmm,” Gerard leans his head on the man’s broad shoulder, “I guess so.” 

He doesn’t dare talk about how they literally sleep together because then who is going to help him to the cafeteria for lunch if Llorente passes out?

Of course he doesn’t notice Sergio frowning faintly at them, a pinched, sour look on his face.

…

The ball slips past his feet too many times. 

He can’t explain to anyone why. One second he sees something coming, then his vision decides to mess him up, and it’s kicked right through his legs, he’s still blinking when the ball gets dribbled away. He thinks they’re all disappointed in him. He’s disappointed in himself. 

To slap the fucking death out of him seems like an easy escape. 

One of the Iran players jumps up near the goal in front of De Gea and his head collides with the ball, but he’s off by a slight distance and it ricochets off the top of the goal post. 

They do their best, and the match ends with a 1-0 courtesy of Costa. He looks around at the blurry mass of people, the grass beneath his feet a hazy grey. Someone closes in on him, and he’s pulled into a rough hug. 

“You okay?” is the breathy question whispered next to his ear.

“Yeah.”

Sergio lets him go after briefly squeezing his hand, and he stops himself at the last second from reaching out to grab it back. 

…

He's locking up the door after chasing the rest of the players out. By the time he has his bag slung over one shoulder, sliding and twisting the key in the lock, it's already dark.

Shrugging to himself, Sergio tosses the keys in his palms, letting the jangling noise fill the quiet of the hallway as he pulls out his cell phone to check the time. It's exactly eight. He starts to walk down to pass the keys to security hanging around by the front.

Turning the corner, passing the opening to the spectator seats, his mind drifts to dinner options when he casts a quick glance and does a double take.

It's Gerard, sitting by himself halfway two rows down from the top, on the seat closest to the steps.

Sergio blinks, pursing his lips. He should have left by now. They lock everything up by nine latest. He inches closer, grips his bag and the keys in one hand as he leans against the wall watching him.

Gerard's got his headphones in, feet kicked up on the seat below him and slouched so his knees are almost level with his head. He's really too tall to sit properly in the seat, but he makes it work.

The scene, Sergio has to admit, is pretty nice. It's dark out, the pitch is shadowed mostly with just two of the floodlights on, bright enough to illuminate either of the goal posts. It's peacefully quiet, which carries along a tinge of melancholy.

Sergio crosses his arms, the team jacket doing its best to keep out the lingering chill. He notices Gerard has on one too, opened completely where it fans out around his thighs.

Sighing through his nose, Sergio pulls away from the wall, heading down the few steps to where Gerard is.

He taps him on the shoulder, because he doubts he can hear or see him all that well.

Large eyes crack open to stare upwards before he turns, and they squint around before focusing around him. Gerard pulls off his headphones with a questioning look.

"Aren't you leaving?" He asks, just loud enough.

Gerard holds up a set of keys that dangles on his index finger. "I asked them to give me the keys to the main gate. I'll lock up when I leave."

Sergio nods slowly, torn between leaving or asking if he can stay, unsure if Gerard wants to be alone.

Taking pity on him, Gerard smiles slightly, wetting his lips before asking, "wanna stay?" He dumps his bag from the seat beside him to the floor, patting the now empty space beside him.

"Just until nine, yeah?" Sergio says but he's already moving, squeezing past Gerard's legs to slump into the seat with a loud sigh.

He's handed a headphone, and he swallows, heart suddenly in his throat when he sees it's the wired ones. So sue him, sharing those headphones is very intimate. Snagging it quickly before Gerard can take it back, he slots it into his ear, letting the soft music flow through him. 

The volume is at max, and he winces, adjusting it at the tip of his ear so he doesn’t kill his eardrums.

Gerard doesn't seem to notice much of Sergio's discomfort, angling his head against the back of the seat and exhaling, hands resting against his stomach.

Sergio eyes him warily, leaning closer until their shoulders press together. His heart is racing and he cannot believe how much he wants to- if he could just lean over and press his lips- 

Gerard shifts, not once opening his eyes as he lifts his elbow, settling an arm heavily across Sergio’s shoulders. Exhaling shakily, the thudding against his ribcage dangerously close to jumping out his chest, Sergio rests against him.

After a few peaceful minutes, Sergio starts to shift around in his seat, sticking his legs out and curling them back in, a jittery ball of nerves in Gerard’s side.

Gerard turns to him with an irritated sigh, jabbing him in his side until he squirms away, “Stay still."

"Nope." He grins unapologetically, poking him in the arm again and again. “Gerard.”

Gerard rolls his eyes, pulling his earbud out to face him completely. "What?"

"You're okay?"

It's asked in such a genuine tone that Gerard's features soften. "I will be." He tells him truthfully.

“I can’t imagine how hard this is for you.” Sergio says sadly, toying with the string of his jacket, letting the frayed ends flop around as he twists it, “I probably wouldn’t have taken it as well.”

Gerard catches his irritating hand, tugging it down to his lap, Sergio’s eyes following the movement, fingers twitching limply in his grip. He doesn’t agree or disagree with Sergio.

“Don’t you ever wish to just fuck it all?” 

Nodding slowly, “yeah but," he sighs, "is being miserable all the time going to help?"

Sergio glances at the empty stadium, rows and rows of seats. The loudspeakers not blaring music for once, no whistles, no cheers. He wonders if this is the silence Gerard will grow to live in. It’s not all that wonderful and he really wants to be able to just let him experience it all one more time.

Standing up abruptly, "c'mon, the place is ours for as long as tonight."

He yanks Gerard up by the hood of his jacket, the other man grumbling as he dislodges his legs from the chair. He catches the other earbud Sergio flings at him, and he's stumbling down the steps as he's all but dragged him down.

They dribble the ball between themselves and shoot a couple of goals in their Nikes, the softer soles making Gerard forget he's wearing shoes at all.

He's taking a break, sitting on the grass by the goal post as he watches Sergio take a freekick. The ball sails in a sweet curve to slot into the back of the net. It's a pretty goal, Gerard manages to see it roughly fly past him, and he cheers as Sergio jogs over.

“You saw that?” Sergio yells excitedly. 

"You really missed your calling as a striker." He laments when Sergio sits down beside him, legs stretched out.

"Right?" Sergio grabs the ball, balancing it on the arch of his shoe before launching it off. "I definitely would have won a ballon d'or by now."

He chokes back a laugh, Sergio turning his head sharply to scowl dramatically at him. "You keep telling yourself that." He reaches a hand across and it collides with Sergio’s head. He grins. Jackpot. He ruffles up his hair, Sergio squaking, flapping his hands away. "Stop that man, I spent like, twenty minutes on that!"

"An hour, two hours, twenty minutes, what’s the difference?" He deadpans.

Sergio huffs, patting down his fringe. "You're just jealous."

"Of what? That helmet of gel you call hair?”

Sergio gapes at him. He’s speechless! Offended! "Rude. You're never nice to me." He pouts.

"Only because you can handle it." Gerard laughs, trying his luck again, this time Sergio leaning safely away from his evil hands. 

And it's true, Sergio is always able to meet him halfway, to take a part of him and ground him in this reality.

Gerard breathes quietly, breaths coming out softly. “Come here.” He holds a hand out, Sergio taking it easily and sliding closer on the trimmed grass.

His fingers glide over the ridges of his knuckles, pad of his thumb smoothing over the back of his palm.

It’s quite ironic, because for as long as he remembers, he’s been slipping away, and coming back at the same time. There is something about Sergio that seems to suspend him in the middle. He almost believes he _senses_ around him. 

Moving his hand out of Sergio's grasp gently, it hovers midair. He can make out the outline of his face, and if he closes his eyes, surely he can picture with perfect sight and in stunning colour contrast the shape of his lips, the contour of his cheeks, his eyes.

In this moment itself, he can only see his face as a blurry patch, features paled and foggy.

A part of him breaks, more than it has already over the past few years, crumbling inside and leaving a wide gaping hole.

He slides his hand free, only feeling cool stillness until he finds a warm cheek, long fingers instantly skimming down the side of a strong stubbled jaw, hand unconsciously trembling because not seeing what he's touching, to an extent, still scares him.

Sergio lets him trail his fingers across his face, and Gerard feels rather than see the forced smile from the quivering upturned corners of his lips. Breaths ghost over his skin, and he knows Sergio's trying to keep his breathing as shallow as possible. 

There's also a tightness from where he's clenching down on his teeth, he notices as he brushes his thumb along the curve of his jaw. Feeling up the slope of his nose, he’s suddenly filled with a desperation to not stop seeing.

Gerard’s other hand comes up and cups the other side of his cheek, tracing the crescent of his earlobe with a gentle yet firm finger, Sergio’s breath hitches.

He fixes his gaze on Gerard's clear eyes. It's such a waste that such perfect eyes can't fulfill its role of giving him vision. They're wavering, unfocused as they flit around the general vicinity of his face, never settling down properly.

Whoever his soulmate was must have had a heart of steel to say no to those blue eyes.

Gerard's caught up in his own thoughts while his hands busy themselves memorizing every design of Sergio's face, and his brain slows in processing the relevant information passing through it, so when the words slip out his mouth, he can't really stop.

"You know you’re really perfect, I could kiss you."

Then he panics when he feels Sergio freeze. Brain catching up with his betraying mouth, hands flinch away like burned, inhaling sharply, apology tumbling off his tongue because he's made it weird hasn't he? It was going good, and he had to go and say something like that and make it bad.

But then there are hands slowly drawing his wrists back in, pressing them insistently against a face, and there are fingers curling around his wrists. He’s startled by the faint press of soft lips against his own, and he inhales, leaning down to slant their lips together.

It’s nothing but a plain kiss, no tongue, nothing. But when Sergio pulls away he can feel his warm breaths against his lips. 

Through the muddled silence within him, Sergio speaks, leaning in close to his ear. It's a soft, pained voice that neither of them recognise.

Keeping Gerard’s hands on his face, he smiles, "there you go. Take a good look before you go."

…

During a match for Barcelona, he blacks out momentarily on the pitch. Sirens are flashing bright red behind his eyelids. He calls to be swapped out. 

Someone grabs his arm, pulls him to the bench, gives him water and his pills. There’s a medic (he thinks it’s a medic) by his side, a hand supporting his neck where his head is swimming and pressure pools right at the back of his head. 

He slots his head between his knees, sinking onto the ground. Trembling hands clasp around his neck to dull the throbbing. Gritting his teeth, he winces. There is a thin line between passing out and staying awake, and by then he can’t tell the difference.

There is no doubting the flood of comments of disappointed fans asking him to leave the next day, too familiar with the reaction having seen it for his other teammates in the past. But he’s too exhausted to react. 

…

Sergio drops by his place in the middle of the night, bursting through his door the moment Gerard manages to work the lock open, lacing their fingers together.

“How-?”

“I caught the earliest flight when I saw the match.” Is what he hears rushed out faintly.

“You were watching?” Despite everything, Gerard smiles.

He hears a laugh. “Yeah.” 

...

The day they lose to Russia, is the day he has a startling revelation. 

He’s jacked up on medication and everything is swimming. He doesn’t play anymore, he’s banned, actually. Doctors and their fucking passes.

But he tries to appear for media shots so people won’t question him. If they do, he conveniently feigns a physical injury. 

They’re packing up in the hotel room after the defeat, when Sergio sighs, wrestling his hands from clothes he’s folding and just throws them into his opened luggage. 

He glances at Gerard who’s lying on the free bed, toes brushing the carpet, eyes closed to try and listen as much as he can. He has no idea the chaos running through Sergio’s mind.

Coughing loudly, “Gerard,” he calls.

“Hm?”

“You’re not coming back are you?”

“What’re you talking about?” He turns blindly in exasperation and slight concern to the man who’s struggling with words he can’t seem to string together.

Sergio groans, finally settling on a hesitant, “Gerard, you know I like you.”

He huffs out a laugh, as if to say, _was that what’s bothering you?_ “Tío”, he grins, “don’t worry your dumb ass I won’t cross you out my friend’s list just because I’m not playing anymore.”

“No I mean,” he groans, burying his head in his hands, god the word _friend_ is truly a stab in the chest. “I mean the _other_ like.”

“...Oh.”

Sergio runs a hand through his hair, irritated because words aren’t his forte when he needs them the most. “Look, I couldn’t care less about the rejection thing ok? Frankly if it were me, I’d take it back in a heartbeat, but I-” He stops short when Gerard gasps. He leans over concerned. “What?”

Gerard blinks. Once, twice, then he can’t seem to stop. Each time he closes and opens his eyes things get.. _.brighter_ . Colour, clarity, it all collides in a burst in front of his face. He braces a hand on the bed, breathing heavily. The sheets aren’t white, he thinks hysterically. It’s off-white. It’s off-white, he can _see_ the difference!

There is that binding feeling returning. He hasn’t felt it for years, and it twists in that same suffocating way around his ribs. But this time it isn’t painful. It’s warm, like a balm finally applied to an open wound that’s been forgotten for years.

It’s too much. The honking of cars downstairs, the air-conditioning, the rustling of his shoes against the carpet. It’s nauseating. Sweat gathers at the back of his neck and he shoots up, stumbling over to the bathroom, the light suddenly too bright. Slamming the door behind him just in time before he retches into the toilet bowl. 

It goes on for a couple of minutes, and then he sags against the floor, back to the wall, the tart bitterness of bile in his mouth. 

_The first thing he gets to taste, and it's vomit._ He thinks bitterly. 

The next thought he has however, is a little less bitter, but a lot more shocking. 

It’s Sergio. His soulmate. 

And the signs were obvious, god they were so damn fucking obvious. Gerard slides down the wall, covering his forehead with one hand, then over his gaping mouth. 

It’s Sergio. 

_It’s Sergio._

There’s a part of him that’s in awe, but it’s widely covered by the confused panic screaming in his head. He gets back up on his feet, rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink before he opens the door. 

Sergio’s right there, hovering on unsteady feet, biting his lip. There’s worry in his eyes, a jittery vibe to his posture, and he startles when Gerard’s blue eyes narrow on him immediately, the heat of his gaze burning into him, almost like he can see him.

“I heard retching,” he says hesitantly after a moment of staring at each other. “You alright?”

“Good.” Gerard rasps, throat still raw from hacking up his throat earlier. He meets Sergio’s gaze, the general confusion and concern drifting around him. He waits for him to say something but Sergio just stares.

“Okay uhm,” He grabs his packed luggage, Sergio stammering when he sees Gerard grab the handle on the first try. “What-?”

Turning back, he stares into the deepest pair of dark brown eyes. He can see him now, and he looks as lovely as he remembers, how his heart aches at just being able to see him. 

Crossing the small space between them, he comes right up to Sergio, the other man stumbling back flustered, eyes darting around in absolute confusion. 

Tenderly, Gerard wraps his arms around him, pulling him gently against his chest, so ready to just tell him what he’s realised. He hears Sergio gasp, feels him grasp the front of his t-shirt in a tight grip, his fist right above his heart, and suddenly it’s too real, he can’t say it. 

Pulling back abruptly, he swallows harshly.

He needs- time?

Sergio tugs him back. Hands tangle in his shirt by his waist, “Gerard? I- I don’t-”

He cradles Sergio’s head in his hands, large hands bracketing his face and Sergio looks up at him with those eyes that he’s falling deeper for every second that passes. He can’t think, he needs to have a moment to think.

Pressing a kiss to his temple, he whispers against his head, “Give me some time, okay?”

Then he steps away from him, picking up his bag and walking away with a hand pressed over his mouth and Sergio, hovering on his feet, stares at his receding frame in shock. 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm he's gertarded


	5. Chapter 5

He calls Leo first, the moment his flight lands in Barcelona, tells him he doesn’t have to pick him up from El Prat anymore. 

Then he drops the news.

“You  _ what _ ?” Leo yells over the phone (he rarely yells). 

Gerard winces, pulling the speaker away from his ear before dialing down the volume from its previous maxed out level. “I found my soulmate. It’s Sergio.”

“How do you know?”

Gerard parks his luggage in a corner against the wall, leaning against it. “He told me some stuff and I'm all good now.”

“Told you things like what?”

_ Like he’d take it back in a heartbeat if it were him, which spoiler alert: it is! _

He shakes his head. “Look Leo, it’s him. I know it, the bond– this feeling.” He can’t describe it, but it’s undeniable. It’s like his very soul was rejoicing, finding its other half once again. 

Pressing a hand against his chest, he can feel the connection, the easy warmth filtered through the nerve spreading through his whole body. He feels  _ loved _ .

“Okay, so?” Leo asks as patiently as he can, “what happened?”

“Nothing, I left.” And hearing it now, it sounds really dumb. 

“You _ left? _ You just _ left him there?” _ Leo asks incredulously. Gerard groans, tapping his foot on the ground. “Yeah, Leo thanks for stating the obvious now.”

“Well, you have to tell him Geri.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He bites his lip, looking blankly out at the rush of people leaving the departure hall. Above, the loudspeaker is announcing someone’s name. It still amazes him that he can hear it all crisply again.

“Tell him Geri.” Leo insists, “don’t sit on it.”

He replies with some sort of vague agreement before clicking his phone off. 

…

So, he doesn’t contact him. Sergio does, multiple times actually. Some texts, some calls, all of varying degrees of panic. 

_ Geri? What did I do??? _

_ Gerard? Answer my call damn it!! _

_ Ok for what its worth, I’m sorry, okay? Will u take the call? _

and the most recent one,

_ if this is about the confession thing then I can take it back ok? Just pls dont ignore me.  _

It's not that he doesn't want to reply. But he's at that point where the silence stretched too long and no matter what, it's going to be awkward.

He’s still figuring out how to reply when his phone buzzes and he promptly throws it out of his hands. 

He curses and goes to pick it up, thinking it’s another call from Sergio he’ll have to guiltily wait until he gives up. But it’s not. With raised eyebrows, he checks the caller ID one more time before accepting it.

“Hello?”

“Geri what did you do?” 

There’s no doubt in the world that its Iker. He’s irritated, from the sound of his voice. What did he do indeed. 

Gerard's muttering a prayer in his head before he replies because an angry Iker Casillas cannot be tackled so easily. 

“What?” He asks meekly.

“ _ Sergio _ , Gerard,” he says both their names exasperatedly, both equally fond, and Gerard doesn’t really know how to respond to that.

“What?” He tries again dumbly.

“He’s heartbroken! What did you do to him?” He thinks for a while, “you know what, I really don’t care actually. You fix it though, I’m not going to sit through one more depressed whiny phone call from him, okay?”

Gerard nods although there’s no one to see it. “Yeah.”

Iker sighs. “What is it anyway?” 

“He’s my soulmate.” It seems he just can’t keep it to himself anymore. Gerard thinks, if someone asks him how his day is, he’s still just going to just blurt out that Sergio is his soulmate. 

But it's difficult to tell Sergio when he's the one.

“Oh. Did you tell him?” 

“Not yet, that’s why...hey, why don’t you sound surprised?”

“Gerard. Anyone within a five mile radius can tell you two have some weird twisted relationship with each other.”

“Weird? Twisted?” He splutters.

Another sigh. “Anyway, fix it, will you? You should tell him.”

“That’s what everyone says.” He replies dryly. Easier said than done. 

…

It takes him a week more to gather his wits. He stares at his cell phone way too long, having to tap the screen again and again because it keeps locking out.

He searches Sergio’s Instagram since he’s so active there, scrolling through his latest posts. 

He looks fine, happy even, beaming at the camera with his arms around Luka, and another with him sitting on one of the footballs, the long sleeves of his jersey pulled up to his palms as he looks at something off camera.

Staring at it too long, his thumb slides over the screen and almost double taps the goddamn picture. His hand cramps up from the shock and he quickly exits the app before he does something stupid. 

God, enough stalling. 

Taking a final deep breath to calm his nerves, he presses the call button on Sergio’s number, the call ringing as he puts it to his ear. 

One hand rubs uneasily over his chest, trying to soothe the pulsing. He swallows when it keeps ringing, the sound almost mocking in his ear.

Then it stops, there’s the static of a call getting through and Gerard’s breath catches in his throat at the familiar voice flooding through his ear. 

_ “Hello?” _

Through the trepidation pulsing through him he manages to release a shaky sigh of relief, hand pressed flat on his heart, fingers splayed over his sternum. 

“Sergio.”

There’s a pregnant pause behind the line, and Gerard half– no, fully expects Sergio to blow up over the phone but then there’s a quiet shuffling like something being put aside and a soft, “hi.”

He sounds too vulnerable over the phone, too quiet and fragile and so unlike the man he knows. 

Gerard’s taken too much time for himself. Should he say sorry? He bites his lip. He definitely should, but starting with sorry isn’t really a solid foundation at this point. 

He realises belatedly he didn’t think this through as thoroughly as he thought he did.

Sergio seems to notice this, and he clears his throat, “how’s it going?”

Gerard breathes a quiet sigh of relief. A nagging feeling at the back of his head tells him it isn’t over, but he pushes it aside. Right now, he just wants things to be okay between them, if Sergio’s willing to put aside his tens of unanswered calls and texts for now, then he’ll gladly go along with it. 

“Good.” He croaks, swallowing to save his throat from drying out. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” 

And this conversation is going nowhere. In fact, Gerard chides himself, there is no conversation. If anything it’s usually the buildup _ to _ the conversation.

“Well, thanks for calling back.” Sergio chuckles dryly. “Finally.” He adds humorously.

“Yeah I know man, I–" Gerard runs a hand over his face in a dreadful manner. 

“It’s cool.” Sergio laughs. Gerard thinks he sounds relieved if not a little strained. But the earlier tension has more or less dissolved and his chest eases from the sound of Sergio’s laughter, be it real or fake.

“So when’s the next time I see you?”

“Two months, El Clasico I suppose.” Gerard grins.

“Oh! Well then,” Sergio clicks his tongue in disappointment, “Good luck. If you lose, just remember that it happens to the best of us.”

Gerard glosses over the loose threat. He smiles into his cell. “So Barcelona’s the best?”

There’s a spluttering on the other end of the call and Gerard laughs. 

“Ugh, whatever,” he draws out the word. 

Then in a gentler voice, "but you’re okay? You didn't look too good the last I saw you.”  _ and confessed _ being the unspoken thought that passes through them both. 

“It’s all good now.” 

“Oh.” Sergio says softly.

Gerard bites his lip while he waits for him to say something more. 

“Well then, see you, during the clasico.”

The call ends rather abruptly.   
  


When he walks down the lineup to his spot, he notes that Sergio is already there, bent over to refold his socks. 

Despite the call having eased the tension between them, Gerard still carries a lingering awkwardness on his gangly frame as he leans against his side of the wall, folding his arms.

Sergio stands back up and stretches, crossing one arm over his back and pulling. 

He’s standing just slightly in front of Gerard on the opposite side since he’s captain, and he doesn’t seem to notice him as he jumps slightly to get the blood circulating.

There’s no barricade or railing between the two teams now, everyone either stretching or chatting among themselves before the game. 

Gerard reaches over purely on instinct and smacks Sergio across the shoulder. The other man startles, jerking around before his expression melts into a hesitant smile. 

He doesn’t reach out though, and the now everpresent strain of the reformed nerve in his chest aches at not being given attention. 

So he quickly sticks out his hand in offering and Sergio stares at it, before tapping it twice, fingers curling around his palm the second time as he pulls him closer.

Gerard’s chest sings at the contact, blooming with an indescribable abstract happiness. He throws an arm around Sergio’s shoulders, the other sliding his hand around his side, touch burning against his lower back.

“Good luck.” He murmurs before pushing Gerard back to his wall. 

He doesn’t remember the game all that well, focusing mostly on the happy pulsing that has become a part of him. He seeks Sergio out after it ends. 

“Hey,” Sergio grins when he spots him, arms opening and their bodies collide in a hug that lasts a second too long. 

Sergio pulls away first, beaming, one hand still fisting the back of Gerard’s jersey. He’s sweaty, presses Gerard to himself and he soaks up every second of the contact. 

“Were you trying to tell me something?” Sergio laughs, pulling away, hand sliding down to rest on his hip. He's referring to the freekick, where Gerard was tugging him slightly to gain a bit of leverage for his own jump. “Sorry, but you have to admit,  trying to grab me in the middle of the match isn’t exactly the best time,”  he teases lightly.

He rolls his eyes, unable to mark the smile growing on his face. Reaching forward he pinches the front of Sergio’s (totally rock hard) stomach since the cameras won’t be able to catch it with how they’re angled. Sergio squeaks, backing away from him with a glare. 

Gerard laughs. “Who asked you to get all up in my personal space during the freekick? The field is huge.” He smirks, and Sergio flushes, scratching lightly at his arm. 

“You’re an ass.” Sergio grins as Jordi touches his arm and then he’s turning to give the other defender a hug. 

Gerard huffs a laugh and walks away, skin tingling from all his touches.

...

He pulls his car into the driveway at the selección, grinning at the bemused security guard who lets him in with a shrug.

He hasn't been here for some time, now that he's retired from international duty, but he finds his way like he was here yesterday.

It's early morning still, and when he pushes the door open to the cafeteria, it's buzzing with noise and clinking silverware. Glancing around, he pulls his sunglasses from his face, folding them around the neck of his shirt.

Not gonna lie, he feels a little out of place in a black sweater and jeans in a sea of red jerseys. 

Long legs wind around tables as he scans around the players.

A head pops up from the far corner as Jordi zooms in on him immediately, pointing excitedly and yelling, "Piqué!" Nearby heads turn to look at him and he groans, hurrying over to the table.

"What're you doing here?" Jordi asks, happily accepting his rushed handshake. "Regretting retirement so early?"

"Nah." He smirks, nodding over at Busquets who is chewing a piece of toast tiredly, "not seeing more you losers has been the best point of my career."

There's a collective scoff among everyone seated at the table and he grins. This is familiar, and he may be honest when he says he doesn't regret his decision, the selección has given him enough nightmares. But it's times like these that makes him just slightly fonder of this place.

"So what're you doing here?"

"Where's Sergio?" He asks instead of replying, resting his hip along the backrest of Jordi's chair, looking over multiple heads and not finding the one he wants.

"He left for the locker room I think," Busquets says, smiling slightly as he hands him one of the steaming coffee mugs.

Gerard takes it with thanks before waving them off, ignoring Jordi's grumbling and wanders over to the door that leads to the locker rooms.

There are multiple rooms, but they always use the same one, so he makes a beeline for it. Pushing the door open slightly, he sighs in relief when he finds Sergio sitting on one of the benches, foot perched on the opposite chair, rolling his second layer of socks on.

He's faced away from him, so he enters softly, the door clicking shut behind him. Leaning against it, he slurps his coffee, watching Sergio fuss over his socks, rolling them over his knees before pushing them down his calf.

He huffs a laugh, "just pull them up, more protection for your weak knees."

Sergio's head turns so fast at the familiar voice Gerard fears he gets whiplash.

The team captain swallows, staring wide-eyed at Gerard like he's unreal. "You–"

Pushing off the door, he walks over to Sergio, the other man dropping his foot, turning to face him instead.

"Hey." He leans down, and Sergio stretches his neck, hand reaching hesitantly to rest on his shoulder as he presses a soft kiss to his cheek. 

Gerard tilts his face further and feels Sergio's lips brush the corner of his own.

Pulling away, Sergio fixes him with a small smile. "Hey yourself." He pulls his socks up to his kneecaps quickly while Gerard settles his coffee mug on the bench. 

Sergio glances at it nonchalantly before picking it up to take a sip. "You went to the cafeteria?"

"Yeah, was looking for you, but I couldn't find you there." He settles on the opposite bench, rubbing his knees nervously.

Sergio pulls his legs up, crossing them under his thighs as he steals Piqué's coffee entirely, cradling it in his palms. He stares down into the dark liquid while Gerard fidgets with his fingers. "You came here for me?" He asks quietly.

Gerard nods. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, chest tingling with sensation when he finds Sergio's eyes, a pink tinge creeping over his cheeks.

He can't hold back his chuckle, smile widening when Sergio scowls, cheeks reddening further. 

"Are you blushing?" He reaches to grab his face.

Sergio smacks his hand away. "No." He replies immediately, bringing the coffee mug to his lips, hiding his now very obvious blush behind the rim.

They sit in companionable silence, Gerard crossing his ankles beside Sergio's thigh, watching him, a cautious, fragile sort of silence between them.

He admires the light blue jersey Sergio has on under his training gear, the sleeves rolled up past his wrists. He looks soft.

"Cool jersey." He says to fill the silence, reaching forward to caress the material along his forearm, cheering inwardly when Sergio grins. "Yeah? You want it for memento? Has my number on it."

"What, fifteen? I prefer the number four."

Sergio's grin widens, "want my Madrid one instead? You can wear it under your Barça jersey."

He visibly shudders and Sergio chuckles.

"Are you free after training?" 

"Yeah, why?" His attention gets drawn to the door that's opening, the sound of chattering players starting to stream in.

"Wanna take you for lunch."

"Hm?" Sergio tears his gaze away from the door too, blinking at Gerard before his words truly settle in. Then his mouth falls open slightly, and he swallows.

"Did you just come all the way to Madrid to ask me to lunch?"

"Yeah." Gerard says easily like it's common sense, ignoring the quickening thudding in his ribcage.

Ironically his common sense is saying: no Gerard, dumbass, people don't travel across the city to ask someone out for lunch. 

He grins anyway. "What, you want me to invite you to Barcelona instead?"

Sergio shakes his head in disbelief, and Gerard meets his growing smile with one of his own. "You're so confusing." He murmurs, looking like he wants to say more, but at the last second chooses not to.

"So, lunch?"

"I'd like that." He says softly, a raw, vulnerable edge to his tone.  
  


"Wanna put retirement aside and be my partner?" Sergio laughs later when the other athletes pair up.

The large yoga balls are a nice touch.

"Sure." Gerard rolls up his sleeves, grinning when Sergio chucks one at him. It smacks him right in the face. "What dumb exercise is this now?" 

"Core strength. Winner is the one who holds on the longest." 

"This is just an excuse for grown men to play."

"Shut up, get moving." 

Gerard wraps his arms around the ball, longer limbs giving him an advantage over Sergio. Both of them hyper-aware of the media cameras along the stands turning towards them.

Then Sergio tugs, and he stumbles forward with a surprised yelp, looking across to find a smirk, dark eyes full of mirth. 

"Oh, now you're asking for it." 

Sergio laughs when Gerard yanks it to himself. The ball is soft, and it's hard to hold on. But Sergio's eyes narrow at the challenge, arms tightening around it.

This is familiar, this feeling. It's  _ fun _ .

...

Gerard asks Sergio to come to Barcelona. 

“Why?” He sounds suspicious over the phone, and Gerard has to laugh.

“La Mercè is in a couple of days, it’ll be fun.” He presses his phone to his ear, listening to Sergio’s even breaths through the speaker. "You should come." 

"Alright.” Sergio says after some time.

He makes a decision to tell him during. Maybe at the end of the night, when the festivities are winding down and the whole place is lit up in a myriad of colours. That should be nice, right? The vibe would be appropriate for these kinds of talks. Then again he isn’t too sure, he’s never really done this type of thing before.

Sergio appears at his doorstep a little after noon, wearing an excited smile and slightly disheveled appearance. 

Gerard gives him a once over, slightly bemused. “Did you...fall on your way up the slope or something?”

Sergio rolls his eyes, pushing past Gerard, inviting himself in without even greeting. “I ran into the festival on the way here.” He explains, brushing down the creases of his fitting black shirt. “You guys are insane.”

He looks good, Gerard thinks, watching as Sergio drops onto the couch unceremoniously, stretching out along the width, feet propped up on the coffee table, as if he’s been here many times.

“You wanna go check it out now?” He smiles, leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in his sweats.

Sergio shrugs, “you tell me, you’re the one who invited me.”

“Then we’ll go later, I want to catch the light displays.” He says, moving over to shove Sergio’s feet off the polished wood. Sergio makes an agreeable noise.

Sergio fiddles with the slim gold chain against his collarbones. "What do you want to do now?”

“You had lunch?”

“Nope.” 

He rolls his eyes. Typical. “Then we’ll order lunch.”

  
  
  


He takes Sergio out in the evening, when the weather is a little cooler and the sky just minutes away from darkening completely. 

The centre back clings to his elbow the whole time, and Gerard likes to watch his ever-changing expressions as he takes in the celebrations around them. Sometimes his eyes will widen, mouth falling open in awe or in shock. Then he would smile, and the skin around his eyes would crinkle.

His attention is caught by the music and the people and he never looks at Gerard once, but his hand squeezes gently around his arm whenever he gets excited and that's almost enough.

There are many people in the streets, gathering in squares and dancing and they push their way around, but neither of them is complaining. Besides, the crowd helps them hide themselves a little better. 

Gerard hasn't been down town for the festival for some years. It's not that it's a bore, it never is. But he's had some difficulties and then it just didn't seem worth all the trouble.

Truth be told he misses all this. Looking around at the buildings and cathedrals glowing against the dark skies, the dancing, the cheering, he soaks it all in, and one glance at Sergio tells him he's doing the same.

"This is amazing." Sergio laughs, turning to finally look at him, dark eyes bright and a little glazed from taking in everything. 

A few kids run past them screaming loudly as they chase each other, and then there's a flustered father pushing past Sergio roughly in a hurry not to lose them among the people, and Gerard reflexively wraps an arm around Sergio's shoulders, dragging the shorter man flush against his side. 

A hand grasps against the front of his t-shirt, and can feel Sergio's fingers curling into the cotton, palm pressed warmly against his abdomen as he stares up at him in muted shock. 

Gerard swallows. He's so warm against his side, and Sergio's head is tilted up at just the right angle and if he can just lean down–

"C'mon," Sergio coughs, embarrassed, wriggling out of Gerard's grip as his face heats up, "where's the light display?" 

"At Sant Jaume," he says immediately, blinking at the sudden loss of warmth, his arm hanging midair, and Sergio's now purposely standing slightly away so that there's a sliver of empty space between them. 

But before he can lament the loss, his hand is taken, grasped with a slight hesitation, fingers sliding around his palm and his own fingers wrap instinctively around his. 

"Let's go see." 

  
  


They find the cathedral, and it's quite a gorgeous sight. It towers over the square, glowing a luminous blue in it's spot, looking every bit as magical as he remembered. 

It's a light show for a reason, so they find a comfortable spot amongst families, children and parents and elderly, all appreciating the spectacle of changing colours and patterns before them, a story told through projections. 

He looks over at Sergio who leans against him easily, resting his back against Gerard's right shoulder. 

"Do you come every year?" 

"I haven't," he admits, "not in some time." 

"Oh." 

Gerard shakes his wrist, rolling the face of his watch up to check the time. He rests a hand on Sergio's back, sliding down to the base of his spine as he pushes him away slightly. 

"Come on, I know the best place to catch the fireworks." 

  
  


He brings him to higher ground, where they can see the fireworks with ease but not have to endure the explosive noises and bodies pushing against them.

Sergio leans over the railing, bouncing lightly on his toes in anticipation and Gerard grins. 

"Don't fall over." He says, reaching around Sergio's back to slide a hand over his waist securely. 

The other man kicks him irritatedly in the shin. "Don't ruin the moment with your stupid jokes." 

"This is a moment?" He teases, dragging him closer, smile softening when Sergio elbows him sharply in the ribs but doesn't move away, head tilted to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his lips. 

They're just in time to catch the first few sparks explode high in the sky with a low boom, fanning out in a circle of sparkles, glimmering as they disperse into nothing. 

Gerard has no doubt that Sergio has seen his fair share of fireworks throughout the years. Who knows, the fucker could have set off his own pack of fireworks in his backyard, no regard for safety whatsoever. He's wild like that. 

But when he glances over at him, he's happy to see him enjoying himself, watching the display with a soft smile, eyes chasing after every new addition to the smoky sky. 

He's come to realise rather vividly and forcefully through sensations that he can never dislike Sergio. 

Sure, there are times he'd rather kick a football straight at his face and hope he breaks his nose, but he's going to run over immediately after to make sure he's alright.

He's much too pretty to bruise.

Sergio's blatant roughness, his easily agitated demeanor and overall stupidity coupled with an endearing need for touch and care for others makes him who he is. And Gerard would have never realised,  _ has _ never realised up till now.

And by way of things, it seems Sergio feels similarly. These are the nuances of their estranged relationship that the media is so enamored by, and he understands this now.

So, he has to initiate this, he realises wryly. They’re tethered together by this strange string of for lack of a better word, fate.

This whole situation was just one huge misunderstanding, and so he'll just fix it. 

"Sergio." He starts.

"Hmm?" Sergio asks, angling his head to Gerard to show that he's listening, but he doesn't look away from the sky.

Blissfully unaware.

"Look, I need to tell you something ” Honestly, important things are often harder to say aloud. "I thought about it for a long time."

His voice must sound serious, for Sergio tears his eyes away from the display, watches him quietly, concern flitting around the edges of his neutral expression. His hand braces on the railing. 

For once he doesn't tease him. He doesn't say  _ that's a first _ or  _ next time do that before you write anything on twitter. _

With his useless eyes and ears, a diluted sense of his surroundings, he had seen him by touch, memorized the shape of his fingers, the way he moved, and he feels connected to him on a level beyond physical.

Like the bond, it's a part of him, and he doesn't know how to explain this to his soulmate. His soulmate who watches him across the short distance with weary eyes, his soulmate who does not know what they are and could not feel any of this, yet had stayed by his side all this time.

He just has to explain that.

He can try.

His eyes flicker up, and Sergio is waiting patiently, the sparks in the dark sky light up his face, blue and red and gold one after another, a kaleidoscope of iridescent colours and Gerard  _ loves. _

“Look, Gerard,” Sergio sighs before he can say anything else, glancing away as he leans his weight on the railing. 

His eyes following the explosions of fireworks that never seem to end, “you’ve been nothing but nice to me. But you have a soulmate, and since you're really okay now, you should–” he lifts his hand to the scene, trying to find the right words, “–you should be doing things like this with them.”

Gerard’s heart jumps wildly in his chest, and he swallows. He has to say it now. Now, or all of this would have been pointless. 

"I can't." 

Sergio frowns, shoulders tensed in mild irritation, "but," he stares at Gerard confused, "don't you have your soulmate?"

"I do."

Sergio visibly deflates, giving up on trying to understand what the fuck was going on, and Gerard frantically grasps at the railing, fingers just centimetres apart from Sergio’s, "wait, no– I mean I do have a soulmate,” he sucks in a breath, holds his gaze, his deep brown irises, “it’s–”, he gestures vaguely at Sergio, “ –you." He says, finally. 

“It’s you,” he breathes, repeating it again for himself or for Sergio he doesn't know. 

The tightest grip gnawing away at his insides finally unravels and he doesn’t try to contain the hysterical laugh bubbling out his throat. 

Sergio stares at him in complete shock, his body stilling.

"What?" 

The world quietens down to just between them, and Gerard squeezes the railing tightly, chest threatening to open and vomit out all his feelings at once, the nerve between his ribs tingling intensely. He rubs at his chest to ease the feeling.

"You're my soulmate." He repeats softly, simply. And that's really all he needed to say this whole time, yes?

Sergio stares at him, stunned. 

He frowns, running a hand through his hair, messing it up as panic flows off him in waves. “But I...since when?” He stutters, suddenly looking absolutely devastated as he says the last word in a small voice.

“Back at the hotel," He pauses, "what you said then." 

"And you're sure it's me?" Sergio demands, voice wavering and it sounds too vulnerable.

“Yes." He's never been more certain. The pulse in his sternum throbs in agreement. "It's not impossible to believe isn't it?"

Sergio nods slowly, processing the information with a long, shuddering breath.

He's silent for a long while, blunt fingernails scratching over the peeling paint of the railing.

"You okay?" Gerard asks worriedly.

Sergio nods. “I just– I can’t think of when I would have ever rejected you.” He says softly.

Shrugging, Gerard takes a step closer to where Sergio is leaning. 

He searches. There is no ache. 

Everything is bright. 

Luminous.

“It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago." 

Sergio shakes his head. 

"You wouldn’t have been bond-sensitive back then either.” he adds gently.

That fact makes Sergio relax just a fraction.

Things are quiet for some time, the final flares of fireworks melting against the sky, embers trickling back to the ground.

Gerard watches Sergio silently as he stumbles over his words, opening and closing his mouth multiple times in an attempt to say something. 

He waits for it patiently. 

After all Sergio has been nothing but patient with him. That in itself is hard to come by.

His fingers twitch with an insistent need to touch, but he wants to give him space, so he sticks them to his side.

“So you’re…” Sergio gestures up Gerard’s frame, “really alright now?”

Gerard nods.

Sergio still looks visibly upset, biting his lip, arms crossed over his chest where he stares at Gerard with unreadable eyes. 

He reaches out, grasps the hem of Gerard's t-shirt, asking for him to come closer, and he does.

His heart is filling up in his chest. His senses are overloading, he can smell him, see him, hear his breaths right next to his ear and it’s _colourful_. 

Sergio’s hands dangle by his side. 

Slowly, he reaches over, index finger hooking around Gerard’s wrist, the rest of his fingers sliding after. His hand curls around Gerard’s.

When the taller man grasps his hand, gently interlacing their fingers, he lets out a nearly inaudible sigh. 

His frame relaxes, and he sags forwards, still tense, shoulders pulled back tautly, but he rests his head on Gerard’s shoulder like he always has. 

Breathing softly. Calmly.

Sergio licks his lips, glancing up at him shyly behind lowered eyelashes.

“So this is okay?” he whispers.

He squeezes their intertwined fingers for emphasis. 

“More than okay.” Gerard promises, tilting his head down to meet Sergio’s eyes and his fragile smile. 

All lingering doubt or disbelief disappears.

"Great." 

...

The field, as Gerard had come to understand, is where they play the game and life plays them.

He inevitably searches for him.

And finds his gaze drawn to a pair of familiar eyes across the field.

Looking at him, he feels a complete and utter rightness settling against his ribs.

He thinks, if his mind had reacted faster then maybe– but then his tongue was only ever quick when he was joking or arguing.

Gerard rubs his mouth. His lips are still tingling from the kiss they shared in the tunnel.

Sergio grins brightly at him, and his heart beats so much better.

God, they've been standing on uneven ground for so long.

“Oi!” Jordi yells in exasperation, edging closer to him, “the  _ ball _ , Geri!  _ What are you doing?!" _

That effectively snaps him back to reality.

“Fuck,” Gerard blinks, feet moving, “I got it.”

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.” – Margaret Atwood_
> 
> events referenced: (feel free to skip!)  
> -2010 Nov, BCN 5-0 RM Pique’s La Manita  
> -2010 Spain NT won the World Cup  
> -2012 Spain NT won the Euros  
> -2016 Euros Gerard scored Spain’s goal v Czech Republic 1-0  
> -2018 Clasico BCN 5-0 RM Piqué asked fans to stop cursing at Sergio  
> -2018 Oct, Gerard wasn’t playing well in a fcb match, fans used the #piqueout # (later there was a twitter post showing that he was actually very sick)  
> -2018 World Cup matches: Spain v Israel & Spain v Russia  
> +a funny [ article](https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-5531277/amp/Pique-reveals-Barcelona-Real-Madrid-stars-WhatsApp-group.html) abt the guys
> 
> my [tumblr](https://strungcheese.tumblr.com)
> 
> Do leave kudos if you enjoyed it. I read all your lovely comments! So rad ;)


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